Across The Universe
by glamourrz
Summary: When Asphodel finds herself face to face with death, she chooses life. What she doesn't know, however; is this life— is not her own. This life is one of good and evil, of insanely attractive people with pointy ears and beautiful long hair, and of a father she has never met. A certain golden haired elf, so beautiful it hurts, is only an added bonus . . .
1. Prologue - The Prophecy

NOTE: **I do not own any of tolkiens characters, ideas, or parts of his world, which is pretty much a given that had to be said either way!**

**So yes, this is 'Mary Sue'. If that's not your thing, cool— but I'm telling you, this story has more substance than a simple 'falls into middle earth' trope usually has. **

**I give my utmost thanks to anyone who is reading this story right now, though I do warn you that this is my first fanfic and it definitely wont be perfect! I try my best to keep my information true to Tolkien's tellings— but that too, will not be perfect. Thanks again, and happy reading! :) **

**_**

_"Under the bright light of Isil, will she return to Arda in the golden flower's field."_

_Blinding beams of white light shine directly into Elrond's squinting eyes as he tries to depict the gleaming figure before him. It is heavenly. He cannot move and he cannot speak— for he is completely and utterly mesmerized by the sight. _

_The strange sensation is somewhat familiar to the elf, for it is not the first time he has been visited in the realm of dreams by otherworldly beings. He knows then; it is Lórien, master of visions and dreams, the omniscient being aware of the hopes and dreams of all Eru's children. A Valar, before his eyes. _

_The Lord listens carefully to the spare words to be herd. He is not keen on losing the overbearing knowledge that Lórien so graciously offers._

_The deafening voice begins again, "A soul lost in time and distance, a world walker of the woodland realm. Soon, shall she return, home, to Arda. May she bring revival or destruction to elves near and afar." _

_It can't be, Elrond dismisses the idea. She is lost. They had given up the prospect long ago, a time he remembers well, when the threat of darkness felt far from his heart and soul. _

_Though the prophecies of the Valar have never failed to relinquish . . ._

The elf awakes with a start, eyes snapping open to stare at the ceiling of his silent chambers. The sun has just barely dusted the sanctuary valley of Rivendell with its blanketing warmth.

Elrond shifts to a sit, brows furrowing as his thoughts run free. He throws open the doors of his bedchambers, rushing to his study in a quiet panic. He knows exactly what is to be done, now rather than later.

_A soul lost in time and distance, a world walker of the woodland realm._

He must inform Thranduil immediately.

The soft scribble of his quill against parchment sounds through the air. His hand moves faster than it has in many moons, regardless of the fact that he will not be able to send a messenger out before sunrise. This cannot wait.

And still, the words ring through his mind, tolling his thoughts alike the ring of a bell, _the prophecies of the Valar have never failed to relinquish._

In the golden flower's field . . .

NOTE: **I'm so excited to write thissssss!!!!! Hang in there!!!**


	2. Chapter One - Swan Song

DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.

**"But there's a beginning in an end, you know? It's true that you can't reclaim what you had, but you can lock it up behind you. Start fresh." — Alexandra Bracken**

_\--_

"_**YOU'RE CROOKED ASPHODEL**_, I want to see posture! Do you know what posture is?"

"Yes." The brunette nods. "I do."

The beady brown eyes of Elouise, Monsieur Alain's secondhand, narrow to slits. Being a ballerina at the Paris Opera Ballet was a viscously tolling job, made up of the highest highs and the lowest lows. There was no feeling comparable to what it felt like to stand up on that stage and do what she was best at; ballet, dancing, expressing herself through movement rather than words. She'd never been good with those. . . The lows were more than worth it, a thousand times over for that magic feeling in her chest. Asphodel would do just about anything to make sure she got her share of the magic.

_'You're a magic little girl, my darling! I'll love you to my very last breath!'_

Her mother used to say, and indeed she did. Her childhood had been one of many pleasantries, growing up in the French countryside surrounded by an expanse of green fields. Her father, she never knew— for her mother seldom spoke of him. It had always been the two of them, Mel and Asphodel against the world! That was until Mel Dupont had drowned herself in the bathtub of their country house one year ago to date, and yes Asphodel wished, she wished more than ever that she could have done something, anything to relieve her mother's pain before she had resorted to such measures.

So she tries not to think of the good times because it just makes her feel worse. Asphodel really can't help it though— because sometimes, she wants to remember.

Gone are the days her mother would sing her songs in the beautiful incomprehensible tongue she rarely spoke, gone are the days they would cater to their flower garden, her mother teaching her the ways of respecting the earth. Now, are the days she loathes, the days that drag endlessly on.

_It is in the past,_ she says to herself.

But now, it was just her, and her one-bedroom apartment— and oh! Don't forget her tabby cat, pumpkin. (Yes, she named her cat pumpkin.) Halloween was much more than a day dedicated to all things spooky. It was her absolute without a doubt favourite day of the year! She'd spent more October 31sts than one could count, frolicking the streets like a madman and begging for candy from strangers.

_Stop thinking, start dancing!_

"I will show posture." Asphodel assures once more. The girl is a people pleaser, obnoxiously so. Her mother had made sure of it. If not to please than what was she to do? Her spine straightens, shoulders levelling out effortlessly. Okay— maybe not as effortlessly as she made it seem. Her muscles wracked with pain. She's just so tired, so eager to lay down that it is unbearable. The position is unnatural. She twists graciously, landing on a single foot. Then again, and again, and again—

"You are dismissed!"

The dancers around her begin to gather their things, heading out to change into more comfortable attire.

The ballerina's mossy green eyes flash bright with joy as her limbs fall back into their natural state. Finally, the ache stops. She can't seem to stop her thoughts from articulating back to how sleepy she feels. Skin shaded blue and purple lingers beneath her eyes to prove. She knows she'll pass out on the bed the moment she gets home. Her bed! So fluffy . . . and comfortable . . . and sof—

"Asphodel, viens ici s'il te plait!" Elouise catches her before she has the chance to slip out. The tired washed out green eyes of the girl in question snap to her superior.

It looked like her sleepy daydreams would have to wait a moment longer.

What could Elouise want now? Is she going to yell, or scold, maybe even punish? Almost anything is in the realm of possibility when you're up against a woman who knows no limits. Asphodel prepares herself, biting her lip as she approaches the stern woman. The ballet coach crosses her arms, staring at her with such dismay that a tight cramp begins to curl in the brunette's empty stomach.

"Yes?" Asphodel asks hesitantly, loosening her hold on her bag.

"I want you here an hour early tomorrow morning. We have much to work on, dear."

And usually, she's really good at hiding her emotions. But this time, it is like a hit to the heart, being insulted for the only thing she actually considers herself remotely good at. Not good enough, so it seems. Something is just . . . off, today. She can't describe it. For the minuscule of a second, her face drops, the light in her eyes diminishes, she can feel her heart sink, and unfortunately, Elouise is quick to pick up on it. Her ebony eyes narrow.

"I'm sorry? Is something wrong? Are you too lazy than to work for what you want?" Her voice raises pitch. She takes an ominous step closer. The room is so silent Asphodel can hear her own shallow breaths. God, she thinks to herself, I really have to work on my emotionless facade. "If so, there are thousands of other girls who are more deserving to hold a place in our ballet . . ." The older woman's voice is almost taunting now, like she's daring Asphodel to stand up to her, ultimately meaning more punishment.

_You're such a wimp._

"No, Mam. You've misunderstood Mam. Of course, I will be there. Thank you." Asphodel being Asphodel, is forced to choke down the tears that threaten to stream down her pale cheeks, taking Elouise's harsh words to heart. Sensitivity had always been one of her worse traits, strength never her strong suit.

The woman nods dismissively, a silent signal pf permission to tell the girl to leave.

"And Asphodel?"

"Yes?"

"Anyone can be replaced."

A chill shoots down her spine. She's embarrassed to admit that she's absolutely terrified. She then proceeds to sling her bag over her shoulder and scurry out.

It doesn't take her long to change into a pair of leggings, flats, and have a jacket thrown over her thin powder pink leotard.

Taking one last look in the studio mirror, she sees the same old girl, a tiny bit more miserable than usual. (There's not much of a difference when she's so used to it though.)

She rakes a hand through her dry hair, devoid of shine, dyed the same dark taupe it had been for years now. Her natural platinum blonde had demanded attention, which was the last thing she possibly desired, hence the dye she forced herself to let seep into her hair when blonde began to peek out at her roots. She's not so sure where she gets the colour from, though her best guess is her father. Asphodel had never dared to ask. There was no way of knowing now . . . even if she desired. Asking dad related questions had only ever upset her mother. One thing was for sure, Mel Dupont's dark blonde locks were in no way of resemblance to her daughter's.

Eyes, far too green to be considered just another pair of green eyes, bore back at her. Shades of icy moss interweave through tints of washed-out mint, hardly doing their job of concealing the chaos inside. She herself can see through them. A collection of sleepless nights and poor nutrition have partnered to paint her a terrible complexion. She's sure, if you looked up the definition of sleep-deprived twenty-something-year-old, you'd find her picture plastered beneath the words _ASPHODEL DUPONT._

_Who is, Asphodel Dupont_? She cant help but question.

\--

Sitting in the car and scarfing down hummus and crackers as if it were her last meal, Asphodel regards the flood of ballerinas tiptoeing through the parking lot to their vehicles. She had been in their shoes moments ago, rain pillowing down onto her chartreuse rain jacket, making a run for her small car with the utmost urgency. The sky had opened— and with it came water. A lot of water.

The rain was a given when you lived in Paris. The place was a rain magnet. It was a bonus though, that way the flowers in her small windows sill garden were almost always in bloom. God forbid Ashodel's flowers weren't in bloom!However; it did mean she would be able to go home and watch reruns of Friend's. . . and maybe even make peanut butter celery stick boats as a healthy alternative to popcorn! (_Because she has to watch her figure_, says Monsieur Alain . . .) It would most definitely give her that warm rainy day comfort that she so desperately needed at the moment. You know? That indescribable feeling of happiness you get from lighting a nice smelling candle, watching a movie and eating food— all while the sky cries from outside? Yeah, she was looking forward to it for sure.

It wasn't as if Asphodel didn't like people, she did, she really did. It was only that she felt nurturing a bond between friends would only ever result in loss. She has this theory, that you can't feel the pain of loss when you have nothing to lose, to begin with. She had lost nearly everything she held near and dear to her deteriorating human heart— and she would do just about anything to make sure she never felt that way again. Besides, the others at the company were not so keen on befriending the brunette either way. The business was too cutthroat for casual friendship. Anytime a roll was given in a ballet, resentment would emanate through the house's chilly halls, the dancers would turn on each other in the name of jealousy, shooting glares across the room and doing anything they could to make the other's life miserable. She can still recall the evening Celeste Aralet had poured what seemed to be an entire jar of blueberry jam in her favourite pair of running shoes. Celeste had snuck into the change rooms during rehearsals, and when Asphodel went to slip them onto her feet afterwards, too eager to get home than to check her shoes for _blueberry jam_— it had not been pleasant. All of it, because Celeste had not been cast.

Then there was the men— _though calling them boys was a far more suitable term — _of the ballet, who'd ventured down every winding road that they could in efforts to win Asphodel over. She could ramble on for hours, they were just that terrible. Despite their numerous failures, the men around her had never ceased in their attempts to woo the girl. Against her every desire, she stood out amongst most other girls, she did not encourage their antics, nor did she reciprocate a single ounce of whatever it was anyone had ever felt for her. She just couldn't, it was out of the question. Apparently, the prospect of 'the chase' had only made it all the more exciting for men who dared to approach the ballet's resident ice queen. Why though? It just doesn't add up. Who wants to flirt with the snappy girl with the ever constant _RBF (_Which Asphodel liked to consider the best around_) _Don't get her wrong though, she knew she was okay looking, okay looking enough to be the daughter of Mel Dupont.

_'People will be drawn to you. They will try to manipulate you. You must be wary of this my light, it is a dangerous world out there. ' _Mel herself had said many a time before.

But why? One could look at her and see the questions flying around her head like those little birds in that one MacBook filter.

The puzzle of 'life' was incomplete, like she had lost a piece under the couch or something. Maybe it was love, or friendship— perhaps even a starring role in the ballet's newest production. Whatever she was missing, had left a huge, gaping, hole in her chest. (There was no way she would be able to find it beneath the couch.)

But at the moment, she's kind of totally is on the verge of a mental breakdown. The fleeting glances of faces passing by her tiny car is what stops the girl. Pigs would fly before she let anyone else but herself know how utterly sad she was— not that they would care anyway. She doesn't necessarily expect anyone to. Life goes on. People have themselves to worry about.

She knows that better than anyone, literally. Asphodel is a full-fledged worry-wart. It has been that way since forever. Somehow, she always manages to think over every scenario, every possibility. It is a gift and a burden tied in one; she is always prepared, and always worried. It had been the culprit of much stress acne throughout her teen years, which had probably been the worst part of it all. She managed though. The girl would take overthinking over underthinking any day when her own company was all that she had left.

_But wait_! She was beginning to dislike herself more by the day.

_Maybe I could die, like mom. _

She had contemplated it before, so childishly. Though she was well aware that life was a gift not to be taken for granted. Stop thinking, Asphodel! It's like her brain is on fire! She's thinking about overthinking and then thinking about trying to stop thinking about overthinking.

So forth, Asphodel does the same thing she always does: begins the traffic infused drive back to her apartment. The day has been everlasting. Her feet ache from the hours and hours of strenuous practice. Pirouettes and Grand Jetés, the shrill demands of Monsieur Alain echo through her mind even now. (That man knew no limits.) Her dark taupe waves have been let loose from the tight bun atop her head, offering immediate relief to the pulling pain at her scalp. These things were not our of the ordinary though. It would have been like any other day if not for the downpour sent from the heavens. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, against the window, weaving into the rhythm of the Fleetwood Mac song that hummed through the car. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. She eyes the traffic light. This is taking too long. A pang of rumbling thunder sounds in the distance.

_Thunder only happens when it's raining! _

She laughs, turning up the volume and letting the rhythm consume her.

Mossy green eyes find themselves in the rearview mirror, assessing her ivory face with a critical stare. She wears no makeup as per-usual. Tidbits of dry skin flake around her nose and forehead, and she can't help but grimace. _Gross_ . . . Since when had her skin gotten so bad?

A loud honk rips her attention away from the mirror and to the rod in front of her. The light is green, damn it! Quickly, she looks both ways, stepping down on the gas and into the intersection. A transport truck turns the opposite direction, wheels spinning against the wet pavement, relentlessly unmoving. It can only mean one thing. She perceives it, in shock. The truck slides with a defeating squeal of rubber.

Dusty rose lips part from each other, brows furrow, eyes widen. Her frantic glances prove there's nothing she can do, this truck is about to squish her small Chevrolet like an ant beneath a boot.

With the compression of metal, her restless soul is greeted by a welcoming white abyss, her body sprawled out across the ashy grey roadside. A variety of noises ring in and out of consciousness. First, there's yelling, then comes the silence, the sound coming hand in hand with death. The girl holds a relatively straightforward understanding that she won't be making it out of this.

The busy street traffic she had grown to loathe so much had all but stopped. Those near to the accident had stepped out of their vehicles, curious stares directed at the girl laying in a puddle of her own crimson blood.

Asphodel had expected it to be noisy— anything but silent. Though she supposes its better this way. She has time to say goodbye to this world, the earth, the animals, the nature that she had always felt so peculiarly intertwined with.

The metallic taste of warm blood pools in her mouth, before running down her chin and dripping down onto the pavement. Her lungs are devoid of air, empty, motionless— and those striking eyes of hers, remain lifelessly open, greener than the flourishing dewy grass lining either side of the road, staring up at the clear blue sky that had so suddenly become devoid of rainclouds. It's the last thing she get's to see, a lone jay, soaring overhead; a happy ending to a sad story.

_I get to die, like mom._

It was 'lights out' for Asphodel Dupont. Peace had finally come— but not without a price.

\--

An elleth with sunshine hair, almost white, runs through an abundant field of flowers, letting her fingers bristle against their petals as she smiles. Her bright green eyes glimmer with joy and a clear blue sky lingers above, not a wisp of cloud in sight. Tall green trees sway in the breeze, surrounding the large field from every direction.

The woods are at rest, all is well. The breeze sweeps in from the south, warm and tingly against his creamy skin. It reminds him of fairer times, a time long ago when Arda was young, before Isul and Anar, when the light of the two trees had been alive and well.

He does not recognize her; though it appears that she does him. On another plain, unbeknownst to the golden elf, she is familiar, a twin flame to his, a beacon of light amongst existing light. Their spirits know each other. She is indistinguishable. There is something here, between them, he does not know what.

Confusion floods him— a bizarre, happy, confusion. He has no cause to feel otherwise. Elation, a warm shower of light blanketing the two children of Eru. What he feels is . . . it's, prepossessing and radiant. He can't bring himself to look away. It is as if every ounce of preexisting breath in his lungs has been ripped away from him. The elleth herself may feel familiar to his heart, but this feeling rooted deep down inside is certainly anything but.

"Glorfindel!" She lets out a melodious laugh, turning her head to glance at the elf who stands at the cusp of the field. Her laugh is unlike anything he has heard before. It is song to his starved ears and joy to his longing heart. "Don't you just love it?" She asks, wondrously.

A wide grin stretches across his lips. Whoever, or whatever perhaps this entity is— Glorfindel is grateful to have been acquainted. It is a breath of fresh air amongst smog.

The grin is reciprocated across the field as she begins to run towards him, arms outstretched. He does not understand, though he does not take action to stop her.

Golden, his hair gleams under the light of Anar. How ironic; he, Lord of the House of Golden Flower, is standing in a field of golden flowers, across from him a golden elleth.

It has always been he, who radiates light and power, he who many find themselves gravitating towards. Yet here in this field— a rival stands before him. Glorfindel can't help but then to laugh airily— well, he tries. . .

But the sound cannot seem to pass his lips. It is undoubted, she knows something he does not. Glrofindel has been left out of the loop. All that there is, is her, and startlingly amber green eyes, reaching out and gazing into his old soul as if she can see straight through him.

Then, there he is, his own body in front of him, arms wrapped around the elleth, their lips meeting with the utmost delicacy.

That is when the elf realizes, it is only a dream . . . . or a memory. Either way, he is left mesmerized— a smile lingering on his lips.


	3. Chapter Two - Used To Be

DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.

**"Courage is knowing what not to fear." — Plato**

**\--**

**ASPHODEL DUPONT USED TO BE AFRAID **of the unknown. Now don't get her wrong, she was not afraid of dying, she was only afraid of what came after.

The blonde awakened with a start, her eyes, made out to be even greener than their usual pale emerald by the vast abyss of grass around her, dart around the clear blue sky above. Flowers dance in the wind through her peripheral vision.

She smiled fondly.

The wind, it was singing. A soft and harmonious melody that lifts her heart out of her chest and sent dose after dose of much needed revival to her soul. It was only a hum, a ghostly echo she had to listen carefully to in order to hear clearly. Asphodel needed more of it, she yearned for it.

_Asphodel Alcarinquë! _

_Daughter of the forest! _

_You are home, _

_you are home! _

Home? She was pretty sure this flowery field was not her apartment.

Asphodel stiffens, the memories of her swan song sweeping through her mind in a mini Tsunami of thoughts. The truck's wheels squelching against the pavement, the voices of stranger's approaching her lifeless body.

Oh god, she realized in finality. _I'm dead . . . _Wasn't she supposed to be upset or something? Wasn't she supposed to be the in the least bit, panicking? There was definitely something abnormally wrong with her— because she felt the opposite. No, not joy. More like an underlying tone of gratitude that it was finally over.

She tilted her chin to her chest as she raised a feeble hand to her foresight. The short and brittle bitten fingernails of her pale hands have decidedly morphed into gracefully nimble and long versions of what had previously been. Asphodel felt her heart hammer in her chest. _Weird. _Her thick lashes dust her cheekbones as her eyes flickered to the ballet leotard and leggings on her body. A mixture of dry and wet blood has permanently stained the expensive fabric of the leotard, leaving a sinking sort of sickness in the girl's stirring stomach. Her hand goes to feel, finding no wound. _But there's so much blood, _she observed, arched brows furrowing. When she lifts her hand back up, the pigmented liquid dripped from her fingers and onto her cheek.

At this point, she sat up, her jaw immediately slacking at the sight before her. All remnants of confusion inside vanish. The scene is a beauty to behold. A meadow, so warm, it's all she can feel. It is a cacophony of otherworldliness, an ocean of golden flowers in every direction. The grass beneath the blinding yellow is thick and lush, making for the perfectly soft surface in which she sits. Asphodel stares wistfully, fearing that if she were to look away it would be gone when her eyes returned.

Icy blonde hair blankets her bare shoulders, running down to its usual just past shoulder length in a pin straight path. Her eyes widened instinctively. The last she could recall, her hair was dyed a drugstore 'toffee brown'. _Not . . .not this_!. Had the heavenly beings gave her a makeover while she was under? Were they going for the natural colour she'd been born with? If so, they'd definitely got it spot on. It's exactly like when she was little, soft and smooth.

She cracks a smile at her own joke. _Why are you like this? _

And then there it was again with a gust of warm breeze.

_Asphodel!_

_ Asphodel! _

_A new light dawns on this day! _

"By the Valar, what has happened to you?" A deep voice drawled jokingly.

She whipped her head around, eyes drinking in the sight of a tall man with chestnut hair longer than her own. He is a warrior, no doubt, a sword sheathed at his hip, though something tells her he is of no actual threat. His eyes are a smoky alabaster, the colour of twinkling stars against a pitch black sky, flickering to meet hers with a charming glint glossed beneath. This was no regular man, it became increasingly clear. He was far too beautiful to be labelled '_regular'_. To say that would be to curse all things pretty and nice. _He was like a ken doll_, she supposed, except with long shiny hair and the clothing of a medieval citizen her eyes had observed. _Hmm, weird. _Let's not forget the pointy tips of ivory ears that poke through strands of dark hair.

Yep, not a man.

She's surprised she isn't more shocked. Asphodel had seen her fair share of crazy things throughout her twenty three years of life. But than again, the fact that he he had ear abnormalities, though strange, did not come close to rivalling the singing trees of the the forest Mel had taken her daughter to every year, or the whispers she heard in her head every so often. Those were childish things, bits and pieces of a life in the countryside and so far off she can hardly wrap her mind around the memory.

Asphodel tilted her head, staring into the eyes of the stranger. A small smile is shot her way.

"I am Elladan, son of Elrond. I mean you no harm." His deep voice soothes the confused girl. She cannot draw her eyes away from his face. Emerald irises scan his fair features curiously, not understanding how someone, a male, could be so pretty and so handsome at the same time.

"Your ears," Asphodel murmured. "they're pointy."

For some reason, he is deeply amused by this, grinning all the while shaking his head to himself. So what if she was stating the obvious? It was more of a statement than a question; that she had made clear in her questioning tone. It's still irritating, you know, because generally when you're asked a question, you give an answer back.

"What?" Her voice strained, eyes narrowing.

"It is only that they are no different than yours, Asphodel. You stare at me with such disbelief when we are one and the same." He says, ever so calmly, taking slow steps toward her.

"You know my name." Her bright eyes wavered back to Elladan as a steady thump set pace in her chest. In the blink of an eye, the girl stood on her two feet, feeling dizzy but determined. The pointy eared man's eyes go all wide at her unpredictable behaviour, as a dark scowl pulled at her pursed lips. "How do you know my name?" The blonde pressed, far less concerned with the whole pointy ear situation than with what he had just said.

"All will be revealed in time." Elladan coaxed, noticing the brief flash of fright through her eyes. He felt terrible, withholding what Asphodel was dying to know, but he had no choice. The elf knew he could not tell her here, in broad daylight. He knew he had to gain her trust, somehow— be it anything.

"_ Tolo ar nin, Asphodel. Av-'osto, an ngell nîn." _The words spilled past his lips but all that Asphodel could manage to comprehend was a symphony of riddles. Realization washes over him as he watches her face conform to confusion. Elladan is sad almost, to see her so confused at the sound of the language of her own people. He had at least expected her to understand Sindarin— if not speak it.

"Everything will be explained soon— if you come with me," He said, eyes kind and set on hers. This time she understood, this time he spoke English— and not Klingon, or whatever the hell that was. Her thoughts ran with the wind, could there be a tribe of pointy eared men somewhere in those woods, awaiting Elladan to bring her back so they can roast her over a fire like a rotisserie chicken? That would be bad, _really bad_. "I ask this of you, Asphodel." He interrupted her inner ramble.

Asphodel took another step back, her wired in survival impulses taking control over her limbs. Hell yeah she was exhausted, and hungry, and confused, the list went on and on. The girl had just died on the side of the road for gods sake! He was strange, too strange for her own liking— and she wasn't getting the answers she wanted.

"I," She bit her lip, trying to find the right words. "I call bullshit on that. Tell me now, or I won't be going anywhere with you anytime soon." She demanded— leet it be clear she was not requesting. Things were beginning to take a turn for the worse, as the two had a stare down, the only thing separating them being the abundance of golden flowers swaying in the breeze.

_ God, they were so unbelievably beautiful . . . _

_Focus Asphodel! This is important! _

"It is in your best interests to come with me, Asphodel. I have said it before and I will say it again; I mean you no harm. You have my word." Every step she took backwards is one he took forwards.

Her head was humming vivaciously.

Why did he have to sound so convincing? How did she know if his words were genuine or not?

The afterlife was surely not as it had been depicted in the media. They never mentioned the fair faced beings, too beautiful to put into words, too freaking pestering for their own good.

Asphodel could feel her lungs become more and more deprived of air. The conflict was draining her already drained supply of energy to greater lows than ever before.

"Please," Her voice was a desperate plead. She then gulped, choking down the urge to vomit as a spell of dizziness overwhelmed her. "how do you know my na—"

And miraculously, for the second time that day, Asphodel laid unconscious in the field of golden flower.

Elladan sighed, sliding his hands under the stubborn elleth's body and lifting her up into his arms. She was too stubborn for her own good.

His father would not be happy about this. Elladan was given a single task, to bring the elleth back safe and sound, though this— he glanced down at her bloodied body — would have to do.

\--

_The elvenking sealed the letter appropriately, his mind elsewhere as he awaited the arrival of his most trusted messenger. _

_He remained in a state of disbelief. _

_The elf was tempted to go to Rivendell himself, to scream in the face of Lord Elrond with all of his fury. Only then, would the lord know how truly upset Thranduil had felt upon receiving his letter earlier in the day. _

_The 'false pretenses' so he considered them, that had been presented to the king were the root of much commotion throughout the woodland realm that fatal day. Tables were flipped, innocent elves shouted at, all lingering peace was stolen from the halls of the hidden palace in the name of a slew of measly words scribbled onto paper._

_It was as if a wound from long ago had been abruptly ripped open without warning. (Though let it be said, it had never been healed to begin with.) _

_Upon reading the letter of which the lord sent, Thranduil's broken heart had only shattered into tinier pieces of what was left._

_The king refused to entertain the idea. Elrond was a blind man to think it be._

**\--**

**note: it's just so much fun to torture my characters! thank you SO much for taking the time to read!**


	4. Chapter Three – A Cold Shower

DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.

**"It's never too late to be what you might have been."— George Eliot**

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**SHE WAS THE SPITTING IMAGE **of her mother, save for the silvery blonde hair cascading across the soft pillow on which her head lay. With her fair Vanyarin looks and high rose flushed cheekbones, Elrond himself was rendered unable to distinguish the elleth's face from that of her late mother's. It was all too familiar for the Lord; the pale gleaming skin and long lashes that could only belong to the descendant of his oldest friend were discerning to look at.

_The elleth was many things, but she was not her mother_, Elrond needn't forget.

"_Gi nathlam hí_." His voice was soft, piercing through the silence like an arrow to a target. He had watched from afar as she awoke, confusion flooding her features.

Asphodel choked on her own breath, lost for words at the beautiful artistry decorating the expertly architected room. Chalky hand carved stone arched across the entrances surrounding her numb body, opening out to a wondrous escapade of green trees and cloudless skies. Leaves, an array of amber and olive shades, twined down the pillars supporting the painted stone ceiling. The pillowing echo of falling water made its way to her ears, momentarily succeeding in putting her questioning spirit at rest. She was quick to regain her memories, remembering Elladan, the man with pointed ears and starry eyes who'd confronted her in that beautiful, let her make that particularly clear, meadow. Though the scenery of golden flowers in her last conscious moment previous was beautiful— this, she took a sweeping glance of the room, was certainly more what she had envisioned the afterlife to be.

There was an indescribable sacredness here. Asphodel felt more present than she ever had, as if her mind had been freed of it's ties and chains, as if she could finally _breath_ for the first time in her life. An otherworldly emotion had clasped onto her heart and refused to let go— and though confused, she welcomed it, like that of a close embrace, a reunion to something, someplace, she had never even known.

A kaleidoscope of green, amber and grey flecks danced through her irises as she was unwillingly thrown into a different conscious— one that without a doubt did not belong to her.

_"I worry for you, Miluiwen. It can not be easy holding the very essence of time itself in your hands."_

_"That is only it, meldonya. I shan't take it for granted, for any gift given is not one without reason." Her friend did not see. How could he not see? _

_"You are not wrong. Though that does not mean you should do as you please without worry."_

_"I've seen it, Elrond, there is a world beyond ours that beckons me. Worry," she laughed. "is the last of my worries." The elleth did not lie. Any and all evidence of the emotion was a far off cry in the distance, so far away she deemed it non-existent._

_"But there is a world that needs you, here. Do you think it wise to chase the danger of the unknown? To go against the wishes of Thranduil, all the while as you bear his babe? I advise you to reconsider this, my friend, if not for my wellbeing, than for at the very least your own." _

_The Lord cast a solemn glance out over the river, grey eyes trained on the rippling waves over the jutted rocks. Miluiwen, he frowned, always so stubborn. _

_The wind tugged at the chocolate blonde locks of the elleth who could not, as Elrond feared, see the danger in her untameable curiosity. The world was not as kind as the she hoped it to be. How could she not know better than anyone, having lost her father and mother to the dooms of this darkening world? Some things, Elrond would never understand._

_"Thranduil does not know of which he speaks. He has not seen it, nor have you. I can not blame the blind eye for turning away in the face of wonder. I am here, now . . . Safe. . . If that were to ever change, I like to think that Thranduil, life in whole, would continue on without me."_

_Intensity crackled through the cool evening air— and in the eyes of Lord Elrond, who looked to the blonde with desperation._

_"Can you be so sure, Miluiwen?"_

"Elrond— you're Elrond." She rose a shaky hand, pointing at the lord, eyes glimmering with uncertainty.

Who's memories had she just seen— and how? Something about those vivid memories left her feeling a sense of nostalgia.

"And you are Asphodel." Lord Elrond smiled, like it was nothing, like she hadn't just said his name and he hadn't just said her's.

"How the hell do all of you people know my name?"

"I could ask you the same, _mellon nîn_."

"Is this supposed to be heaven . . . ?"

"This," Lord Elrond smiled, casting a glance at the scenery around them as pride flashed through his wise grey eyes. "is _Imladris_."

"Which is where?"

"Arda."

"Yeah, doesn't ring a bell." She laughed, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

_Why am I laughing? I shouldn't be laughing, I'm dead._

"Ring a bell?" Elrond repeated the question slowly, shooting her the most adorable look of confusion.

Her immediate reaction is to laugh, because it's silly, it's a simple expression that everyone knows— except this guy couldn't have understood what she was trying to say. This guy is from the afterlife, or wherever she had been to sent to after that accident. Asphodel organized her words carefully, in able for Elrond to understand. "I don't recognize the name— is what I mean."

He stiffened, his heart sinking in his chest as he fought the urge to frown. Had Miluiwen failed to mention the very place she had married her husband? Elrond regains composure, turning to face Asphodel. "Very well, you have much to learn, child."

"I presume you to be hungry, no? Travelling such distances has a tendency to to drain one's energy."

"I could go for a coffee."She shrugged, silver hair spilling over her shoulders as she stood up next to the bed.

Elrond's inquisitive eyes followed her every move. He was rather unsure of whether or not she would be able to succeed in the action. Many a time had he seen elves, freshly freed of the grip trauma, attempt to hold their own. The action was pride driven, despite the fact that he knew she was in pain. No sane elf would ever want to admit to defeat.

As per usual, his concerns were validated the moment Asphodel felt her trembling legs give out beneath her. A loud groan rang through the room, the elleth now splayed out across the cold stone floor.

_Would it have been so hard to ask for help? God, why didn't I just ask for help? _

That's it! She'd completely embarrassed herself in front of the most graceful man she'd ever met, a feat only a girl such as herself could manage to accomplish. _Making it, like, what?_ The third time that day she'd fallen on her face? It was _kind of maybe_ not as bad as she had made it out to be though, considering Elrond had rushed to her side and helped her onto her feet the moment it happened, not laughing or teasing Asphodel for her weaknesses. _Seriously though_— she noted to swallow her pride in future circumstances as an effort to never have it happen again. Cold were his hands asElrond had offered her the same kind smile, looping her arm through his.

"Thank you." Asphodel murmured lowly, though Elrond could hear her words clear as day. The blonde was an avid '_mumbler'_, as her mother would have put it, and the circumstances did not call for Elrond to hear her words. _Maybe it's those pointy ears of his_, she reasoned. She had hardly ever been able to hear the words of others without having to ask for them to repeat themselves. In the moment, however; his clean crisp voice was clearer than ever. Noises were everywhere, filling her ears. She was picking up on everything.

He tilted his head down to meet her eye. "You need not thank me."

The beautiful man, whatever he was ( _and Asphodel was scarily unsure at this point_), guided her down a small flight of steps leading out of the bedroom.

The same song as earlier floated through the early evening air, veiling over the chatter of the many birds in (_Imladris_? Was what Elrond had called it?) _Something like that. . . _The dwelling had been built into a diving valley, with waterfalls sheltering all signs of life from every edge. The sight overthrew every wonder of the world in which she had came, and it leaves her heart feeling just a bit lighter than before.

Why hadn't this, _this, _been in any of those lists titled _Great Geographical Landmarks, _she wondered? The question sat at the back of her throat, begging to be asked, begging to be answered as her virgin irises took it in. The energy of the earth, of the trees and the flowers and the sky above, called to her soul. It was like a cellphone, ringing through her heart, saying _pick up, pick up! _

"Where am I, Elrond?" she asked.

"We reside in the valley of the elves— as I see you do not hold ties to it's true name."

Her hazy green eyes narrowed. Had she heard him correctly?

_Valley of the elves. _

_Ah— _that would explain the pointy ears.

Since when had elves become a thing when you die? They had only ever been the telling of her mothers inanimate fairy tails. But than again— so were many other things on the never ending list of stories that Asphodel didn't really feel like listing off. She also supposed no one had ever been around to tell of what happened when you died. It's not like they could tell people that they were going to be bombarded by flawless beings and singing birds.

Asphodel shot him the most _I have no fucking idea what you're talking about_ look she could muster, attempting to make it clear that his words weren't making any sense.

"You do not know who you are." Elrond said suddenly. He tilted his head to the side, shifting his body to face hers.

The disappointment that flashed through his wise grey eyes told Asphodel everything she needed to know. There was something he knew that she did not. The two stood staring at each other, for she didn't even need to give an answer verbally. Elrond knew, of course Elrond knew. It seemed he had an inordinate wealth of information locked up behind that beautiful face.

She had not the need to ask 'who' he was referring to, or why. There was someone else who she was meant to be— or someone else that was meant to be her— whichever way around it was. Her heart slammed against her ribs as the realization hit.

_Who was she? Who was Asphodel Dupont, and who had Elrond expected her to be?_

But she didn't ask; because she wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

The sun had fallen and rose again, basking a glimmering blanket of light over the bed she had been tossing and turning in throughout the night. Asphodel didn't have to look in the mirror to know she had dark circles looming beneath her unmistakably green orbs. Besides, it wasn't as if there was a mirror in the room anyway. There was a bed, a few pieces of furniture, and nature— because don't you forget, the room was literally open to the elements! She wasn't sure if she loved it or hated it.

Her memory rewinds, to a time where she woke up in the morning and made herself a coffee before having a shower then going to the ballet. Every. Single. Day. It felt so weird, not having matters to attend to. Except she did have matters to attend to, she just simply couldn't. Her windowsill flower garden would wilt, Elouise would throw a fit when she didn't show her face at rehearsals, and pumpkin, her adorable orange tabby cat, would be sent to live with her Aunt Marie who would most certainly feed him way too much cat food. She can't think of a time when she had been more eager to do . . . things . . . any '_thing', _than she did now, staring up at the ceiling from the suspiciously comfy bed that had been so generously offered to her.

Elrond would be here soon. It meant she'd have to struggle into the dress, you heard right, the dress that an elleth with chocolate coloured curls had given to her on the evening prior. An array of conflicted opinions bounced around inside her skull, some telling her _It's just a dress Asphodel, put it on!_ and others shouting at her_ No! You'll look ridiculous!_

Truth be told, the dress was pretty enough for her not to hate the way she looked in it— despite the underlying similarities she had to a snobby 12th century noblewoman. Asphodel bit her chapped lip, glancing down at the deep sapphire hue of the garment as she pinched the skin beneath the dramatically long sleeves. Yep, still not a dream. She sat down on the bed, watching the comings and goings of fluffy white clouds drifting through the sky over the valley. Serenity was the word for it, the _only_ word for it. Than again it conflicted her; conflicted over the absence of conflict from within. She should have felt more disarmed. She should've wanted to cry. Instead, she toyed gingerly with the small emerald gem looped through her silver necklace, thinking of her mother and how much she would have adored this place.

_ Okay, _now she felt like crying.

The thought of her mother alive had the tendency to do that to the girl. Especially when it came to these type of things, because it wasn't just the thought of her as a whole, _it was nothing in particular_. The pain lay in seeing pieces of her mother in everyday objects, everyday moments, that snuck up on her when she least expected it.

"My lady?"

Her silver head of hair whipped to face the owner of the voice.

"Please, call me Asphodel." She offered the elleth the barest of smiles, tucking a piece of tangled hair behind her ear.

"I have been sent to show you our city by the request of my Lord."

"You mean Elrond, right?" she asked.

Small and intricately braided locks of hair — _that Asphodel couldn't quite decide if they were dark blonde or light brunette_ — fell across her shoulder as she nodded.

"What's your name?"

"I am Ilyra, my lady."

_Pretty_, she thought, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. An overwhelming wave of insecurity washed over her, seeping in the longer she kept her eyes on Ilyra. Asphodel looked down at her dress, feeling kinda out of place— not that it wasn't a nice dress, it was really nice, but it really didn't belong on her body. You can put a fancy dress on anyone, it doesn't mean shit if they can't pull it off. Ilyra's silky waves were straight out of a hair shampoo commercial, her pale face was runway ready without the slightest hint of makeup present, she was stunningly perfect, something Asphodel felt she could never amount to.

Though as the blonde had observed, it was kind of a thing around here to be so casually flawless. First Elladan, then Elrond, now Ilyra.

She knew she shouldn't have been comparing herself to the elleth, she really did. There was just that awful voice screaming at her from the depths of her mind, telling her she wasn't good enough, (particularly due to the years of criticism she had endured throughout her time in the ballet industry— though she supposed it didn't matter now).

"Would you mind, maybe," Asphodel was hesitant, pulling at her cold fingers awkwardly. "helping me out with this rat's nest on my head?"

"But of course." Ilyra said, flashing her a wide grin. "We will need to be quick."

She lead Asphodel out of the chamber, down a long winding path lined with trees of green and pale blue daisies. She walked fast, almost too fast. The smaller elleth could hardly keep up with her long legs.

They were equally silent. They were separately becoming lost in their own thoughts, and separately conjuring their own assumptions of the other, was the real truth.

Asphodel looked over to Ilyra, taking her eyes off of the scenery around her for only a small second to find the elleth staring at her with tightly stitched brows. Her navy eyes blinked rapidly as if to focus and zone in on her face, before she quickly looked away. Ilyra was unable to hide the rosy tint that had crept across her cheeks.

"What?" Asphodel couldn't contain her amusement. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, you do not, I assure you. My apologies. It— it is just, you are so enthralled by the simplest of things, Asphodel. It is refreshing."

Her words were strange to hear. She didn't see herself as anything short of ordinary, let alone refreshing. It made her immediately regret even asking why Ilyra had been staring to begin with. It's like every question she has (and _there's so so many)_ she is entirely unprepared for its answer.

Asphodel took a prolonged sigh, casting a glance up at the tree branches mingling above. "I mean, how could you not be enthralled? This place is magical, out of a movie or something."

"A movie?" Ilyra asked, slowing in her steps

"Ever heard of cell service?"

"I can not say that I have." Her laughter is soft and pillowing as they reach their destination.

She's beginning to think she preferred it this way over before, when anyone could contact her whenever or wherever they wished to do so. Many could argue, but the way Asphodel saw it, technology took the humanity out of being human. Sometimes she wished it was the old days again, when people wrote heartfelt letters to each other and actually had to get out of bed or walk down the street if they wanted to speak with someone. Sometimes she wished people just _cared_ more.

Asphodel grinned with a shake of her head. "Then forget it."

_Yeah, she definitely liked it better this way_.

Twenty five and a half minutes later and Asphodel's hair was twirled into two half up braids meeting at the back of her head, keeping the unnecessary hair out of way of her face, though still freeing her silver strands beneath. Her eyes still widened each time she caught a glimpse of her own hair. It had been brown only week ago, and things like that just weren't possible. Still, there she was in the mirror, with silver hair and skin devoid of scars, scars that she should very well have, considering she had been in a car accident, and—_ holy shit, pointy ears! _

"Oh my god!" Asphodel screeched, jumping to her feet and wandering closer to the mirror._ No way_ did she have pointy ears! The unlikeliness was unfathomable.

It was true though, was what the Asphodel realized as she got closer. Her eyes had not played a trick on her. There they were: her ears, modified a different shape than they'd always been. How the hell had she not noticed it sooner? Instinctively, she brought her hand to her left ear, staring back at her reflection as she touched its pointy tip.

_It can't be true._

"Do not do that!" Ilyra was at her side in an instant to pull her hand away.

"Why?" Asphodel frowned, lacklustre.

_She has pointy ears! Pointy fucking ears!_

"Elven ears are sensitive, Asphodel." Ilyra scolded, releasing her grip on the blonde's arm. "Do you know nothing?" She asked the blonde, her jaw literally slacked in disbelief.

_Well I don't know much_, Asphodel's brows furrowed, her emerald eyes dulling down to a washed out green as the finality of Ilyra's words hit her.

The other elleth soon realized the severity of her comment, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Forgive me, my lady, I am sorry. I say such things with no further insight in mind."

"It's okay." Asphodel murmured, suddenly feeling very aware of the fact that she was walking around this place, talking to these people, going on with her life as if she knew what was going on.

_It wasn't ok._

She had to talk to Elrond— now.


	5. Chapter Four - Something Wicked This Way

DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own any of Tolkien's ideas or characters aside from Asphodel and the subplot I've created.

So I had kind of planned on abandoning this story, only because I'm super insecure about my writing . . . but a lot of you have been telling me to continue, which is what I'm doing!! All I can say is _thank you _and that I hope you enjoy!

**"Either we are running 'from' what we fear, or running 'to' what we fear. The former is a choice driven by fear, the latter is an action inspired by it." — Craig D. Lounsbrough**

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_**BODIES.**_

_So many bodies._

_They littered the snow, staining the ground beneath her feet a dark crimson. She stepped over them as she walked, eyes set on the only elf to remain._

_ Gleaming gold metal adorned his body, aiming to protect him from the many foes at hand— although it seemed his armour would offer no aid when it came to the large black outline of a winged figure, travelling closer and closer toward him through the smoky black sky. A flaming fire roared around him, circling in as it became clearer and clearer he had no way out. _

_Others fled, they ran for their lives through the horror, going every which direction that didn't possess a wall of fire to stop them. _

_The ellon stood tall, unable to accept his defeat._

_The white city had fallen._

"

"My lady,"

"Asphodel."

"Asphodel," Ilyra corrected herself with a role of her eyes. "Lord Elrond will not take well to you bursting into the dining hall, I warn you beforehand."

"The dining hall you say? Where's that again?"

"Nice try."

"Ugh! Come on Ilyra, this is like, super urgent!"

"Can it not be done in a more peaceful manner?"

"I— I guess so." She stammered, balling her fists at her sides. "But still! Let's go."

"Are you always so stubborn?"

"Are you always so hesitant to help a girl out?"

"You do not want to see me angry, Asphodel. Do not mistake me for a fool. Adjust your tone before I leave and do not return."

Woah— the blonde gulped, reining in her sarcasm immediately. It had only been playful teasing, she had not intended to make Ilyra mad, or to stand there, eyes wide like saucers, staring foolishly out into the abyss of Rivendell unable to find the words to say what she wanted. She'd been given a harsh sip of reality — and needless to say, it was really fucking bitter. If one were to go back in time and talk to the tinier, buck toothed, shy as hell little girl that she'd been back in the day, perhaps her response would have been different, perhaps she would not have cared. Not now though, now she was a people pleaser, a product of the ballet, made to give the people what they want. Pleasing was what she did best — until now, here, where arguably just about everyone around her is perfect.

"Asphodel," Ilyra smiled, a hell of lot more calmly than she had before. It kinda made her feel better, just a little bit. Ilyra was that kind of person that could light up a room with their smile alone. "I only mean to tell you to calm down. I understand that you want to speak to Lord Elrond, I do."

"You're right."

She hated to admit it, but it needed to be said. Ilyra was an elf! Of fucking course she was right! It seemed to her that every single one of these godly beings were wise beyond their words.

This was her reality now, a reality she would have to learn to adjust to, regardless of the mile long list of questions bouncing around her mind as if they were basketballs or something. Basketballs . . . Asphodel hated basketballs. Generally due to that one time in third grade she'd been hit in the head with one of the dangerous orange spheres on the playground— and all due to that stupid little boy Jean Deveraux. Her head had hurt for weeks after that, her mother having to mix her up weird and disgusting flavoured teas that she had no choice in drinking or not. They worked though. Mother's teas had always done the job, like magic or something. And when Asphodel finally worked up the curiosity to ask what exactly was in those 'special teas', the only answer Mel had to offer was that it was an ancient recipe passed down to her over generations, and that someday Asphodel herself would learn, (whatever the hell that meant) but she's never been that interested in her mother's coherent mumble jumble anyways.

"So have you always lived here?" Asphodel asked as she ran her fingers over the braided silver locks she still to become accustomed to, and entirely by accident against her ear, before reluctantly flinching her hand away when a tingle shot through her arm. Those damn ears, she rolled her eyes.

"No," Ilyra shook her head, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. "I suppose it has only been a few hundred years."

Hundred? Did she mean to say hundred? Probably not, right? It would be stupid to ask— because of course it was a mistake.

But what if?

"I take it you like it here then?"

"I do, though never will there be a city worth more to me than the one I was born." She said, so casually it confused the younger elleth. How could someone be so complacent with losing their home? It was silent between the two as she watched a scattering of emotions flash through Ilyra's eyes, and a sadness Asphodel had never witnessed firsthand. Ilyra had been quick to snap back, momentarily winded as she flashed Asphodel a (happy . . . ?) smile.

That was the thing — the brunette was anything but. She could see it in Ilyra's eyes, the pain that never went away.

Asphodel's brows furrowed as a foul taste pooled in her mouth.

"And you? Are you enjoying your stay?" Ilyra asked suddenly, shattering the silence.

Kinda, is what she wanted to say. Because it was beautiful in the valley, it really was, beyond anything she'd ever imagined in daydreams — only . . . there was still something not right, deep down inside. It kept her awake at night, haunted Asphodel every chance it got — but no! That would be rude to say when these people had been so welcoming to her, and rude Asphodel was not. She knew what it was, without a doubt. It had happened so many times before it was almost silly now. Asphodel just couldn't let go.

"It's been incredible." She started off with, before leading into a small frown. "I guess you could say I've been feeling a little down though. I don't really know how I got here."

"What is last you remember? If you recall, that is. Perhaps I could be of assistance if you're having trouble?"

"I," her words ran away from her. "I think I died."

Sheer horror flashed across the elleth's fair face. Asphodel didn't understand how one second things could have been so calm and collected, and the next the mood had down dived to a startled panic. She cursed herself. What did I say? It was understandable for Ilyra to be shocked when Asphodel had literally just confessed to dying, though clearly alive and well. She thought of how the elleth had been on her case, preaching for her to remain calm when here Ilyra was acting as if the sky was falling from above them. (Secretly, Asphodel glanced up just to make sure it wasn't.)

Then, her stormy blue eyes had lost their composure, snapping to meet Asphodel's. The look on Ilyra's face made her stomach drop, made her heart race, made every bone in her body still. Something was most definitely wrong here.

The blonde waited, ever so patiently for Ilyra to say something, anything at all that would explain her strained behaviour. Yet nothing. Not a single word.

The taller of the elleths wrapped her fingers around the other's wrist and tugged gently, nodding her head toward the end of the path. Conflicted emerald eyes blinked once, twice, thrice, attempting to comprehend what was happening here. Ilyra turned, clasping a soft and warm hand over Asphodel's own. "I know an elf much more knowledgeable on such matters. We must tell him immediately."

They were the only words she had to say before she took off down the path, clearly expecting Asphodel to follow.

"Tell who?" The blonde called after her. "Ilyra, tell who?!"

She followed her; down the cobblestone path, through magnificently decorated hallway after hallway, past elves consumed by confusion as to why the elleths were walking with such speed, past paintings and sculptures and architecture that Asphodel would surely find the time to admire eventually— just not right now. Right now, she walked next to Ilyra with one goal in mind: to attain the answers she so desperately needed.

Ilyra stopped outside of a broad set of wooden doors with intricately carved designs running down each side. She glanced toward Asphodel with those wide blue eyes of hers. "You are sure?" she pushed. Her voice was desperate, a whisper.

"I don't see what you're trying to get at, Ilyra."

Again, she asked, "You are sure you died?"

Asphodel nodded, more confused than ever. "Well, not exactly this life, more like a different one that I'm not sure you would understand even if I tried to explain it—"

Ilyra did not care for whatever else she had to say, throwing open the grand doors to reveal a long rectangular table supporting multiple trays of vegetables and fruits, and the prying eyes of many elves turning their heads to greet the commotion.

The room was silent.

"Ilyra . . . " Asphodel hissed, shooting her new friend a stern glare.

Asphodel's voice had dwindled in Ilyra's ears. Her dark blue eyes singled out one ellon in particular amongst the company, who she solely directed her next words to. "She has been reborn, she has met death. This is not the work of Miluiwen, it is the work of the Valar!"

Not only embarrassed, but frightened green eyes skimmed over the group of elves as Ilyra began to ramble in that strange tongue she did not understand.The elves around the table began to murmur amongst themselves some letting out subtle gasps.

Meanwhile, Asphodel saw Elrond, she saw the elleth that had brought her the dress she was wearing now, who as of current was glancing frantically around the room in confusion. She saw Elladan and (was that another Elladan?) she saw head after head of dark hair, some chocolatey, some leaning toward a darker blackish colour.

Then, she saw gold.

"The Valar you say?"

His eyes were the colour of the sky on a sunny day, the kind of sky that you can't help yourself but to stare up at, drowning her in an ocean of sickeningly sweet blue. Beneath his silver robes he was tall and strong, though still somewhat lean — the body of a warrior. His long hair spilled over his broad shoulders, its strands gleaming against the shower of light pouring in through the open window and just about blinding her eyes. The beauty of the ellon was beyond any measure Asphodel could set, so she began to realize. There was no denying that the elf was perfect in every way she could think of, but above all was his aura, the otherworldly presence he held and commanded over the room. She was pretty sure the elf knew what he was doing as he swept a charming glance up from his glass of wine to stare directly into her eyes. Asphodel had been so wrong to assume Ilyra and Arwen were as beautiful as beauty could get — because now there was him, with lively eyes and a lopsided smile, and she was paralyzed; unable to move under his gaze. She looked away before she could embarrass herself further, a ghost of pink hue staining her cheeks.

Lord Elrond watched the interaction, cocking a brow before turning to his company with a smile. It was no strange occurrence. Lord Glorfindel tended to have that . . . affect, on the female specimen. "Excuse us, mellyn nin, for it seems we are needed elsewhere." Amusement laced through his tone.

Arwen reached out to clasp her father's robe as he passed. "Namárië, Ada." She said softly. Asphodel turned to Ilyra as the duo held a short conversation in the language she could not understand that everyone seemed to speak. Nevertheless, it sounded beautiful, even if she had not a clue what they said.

Just as she opened her mouth to ask Ilyra who the ellon in silver happened to be, because she was dying to know at this point, the brunette had floated over to Elrond's side. "Only if you may, my lord. I would not have interrupted had it not been important."

"It would not be the first time you interrupt a gathering to announce something of importance . . ." Asphodel threw a glance over her shoulder at the sound of the melodiously deep voice. He was laughing softly, having suddenly appeared behind her. Hmm . . . So it seemed Ilyra was well aquainted with the elf. Maybe they're together? She thought, brows raising. They would've made a good couple, she decided.

Ilyra rolled her eyes. "Says the almighty you," she scoffed, "who as I do recall announced the call of war at my very wedding — when may I add, war was not upon us then."

"Ilyra," he frowns. "I was under the impression I had been forgiven."

She shook her head before proceeding to scowl at him. "My wedding, Glorfindel!"

Lord Elrond's chilling gaze met Asphodel's, then flickered between the two arguing elves as they took their seats in his study. He then let out a prolonged sigh. "Spare us your bickering, please."

Immediately, the two became silent. It was obvious they were good friends, as they'd been teasing each other the entire walk down the hall. Asphodel felt out of place amongst them, a fish out of water. Each and every one of them were so graceful, and knowledgeable as well. The ballerinas she had known for most her life had only known how to scheme, she was hardly used to seeing the good intentions of others — perhaps that is why she was so hesitant to trust these people, when the only thing she'd ever known had been to trust no one.

Elrond lifts his head. "Now, what is it you speak, Ilyra?"

Ilyra stiffened, clasping her hands in her lap. "Oh, yes, what I've been meaning to tell you—"

"I died, okay?" Asphodel can't help but blurt out, because she wasn't about to sit there and listen to them talk about her life like it was theirs. "That's what she's trying to tell you. I don't see why it is of such importance that it had to be said in front of those people in there, and now again to you— but that's it, that's all, the whole story. I died." She finished, undoubtedly annoyed and out of breath. "And I don't want to talk about it anymore."

It seemed as if each of the three elves softened then and there, hearing — and seeing — the distress Asphodel was so clearly in.

"Let me apologize." Ilyra started off. "It was silly of me to say the words for all the dining hall to hear — though I assure you, you are able to trust that the elves who have heard will not relay it again."

She wasn't sure what to say. Asphodel had always been terribly stubborn, and although Ilyra's words were genuine sounding, she was still cautious as to who to trust and what to believe.

"Alright." The silver haired elleth told her.

"Alright?" Ilyra asked, confused as to why she hadn't said more.

The golden elf had remained quiet, observing the interaction with a carefully eye. Had he not known better he would have mistaken Asphodel for her mother; it was all he could think about. The resemblance was uncanny, though he could still see the elleth's father in her features as well, in the strikingly silver hair that flowed down to her waist, and in the sharp tongue that she'd proven to have. Glorfindel could not deny his interest. She had died, after all. If it was to be true, than it would mean she had been through the same he had, she was experiencing the same shock and confusion that he had, and that he needed to assist her in adjusting to this life in every way that he could. There was nothing worse than going through these things alone.

"What do you remember of it?" Elrond pressed, grasping Asphodel's attention once again.

She scratched at her palms, anxiety bubbling within her. Not a single part of the elleth wanted to relive the event, or even think of it at all. Nevertheless, she played dumb, attempting to avoid the topic at all costs. "Of what?"

"Of your death ."

"Oh, yes, that. I was in a car accident."

"And . . . you don't know what a car is."

"Let's just say it was an accident, a really bad accident. I was going home when it happened, and I hit my head, and the next thing I knew I was in that field of yellow flowers, and was it Elladan? Yeah, Elladan. Elladan was there, and then I was here, and then there was you, and Ilyra, and now I'm rambling . . . "

"Where is home?"

"Paris."

"Home, is not Arda?"

"Now you're speaking my language."

"And of your family, Asphodel? Did they reside in this Paris as well?"

"My mother did." A brick in the form of memory smashed through her chest. She wasn't sure if she could take it. "But that was _before_ — before she died."

"_Dead_ . . . ?" Asphodel could hear Ilyra choke out, her voice shaky.

Asphodel's head of sliver hair whipped from direction to direction. "I don't understand. Can someone just tell me what's going on?"

"How do we know it is her, Elrond? How are we sure? She could be lying! She's lying! It can not be!" Ilyra cried, her melancholy echoing through the study. Asphodel could only feel guilt. One second ago Ilyra had been fine, and then she had to go opening her mouth and ruining all that is good.

Elrond was calm in spite of the abrupt revelation. His wise eyes met Asphodel's, suspense brewing, before they flickered fo the other elleth. "Ilyra, I advise you to choose your words carefully."

She bowed her head shamefully, refused to look the confused girl in the eye. "You are right. I shall see you tonight, Asphodel."

She had disappeared before anyone had the chance to protest of her leave.

Deciding to let it slide for the time being, Asphodel took a deep breath, letting the irritatingly chilly air fill her lungs and did her of hesitation. "You knew my mom." She said.

With a glance up at Glorfindel, it was clear to her he did not wish to speak on the topic; thus, Elrond clasped his hands together tightly, fighting the voice in his head that screamed in agony. It was incredibly difficult not to let his emotions take hold as shock shot through him. It was his duty to provide Asphodel with the information.

"Yes, she was a dear friend of many, including Ilyra; it is why she is acting out as such. I too, am gravely saddened by your revelation."

"Ho— how?"

"We are not the strangers here Asphodel, you are."

"You're telling me that my mom, Mel Dupont, knows all of you people, has been to this place, and has failed to mention any of it to me throughout the course of twenty three years?!"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, but you have the wrong person. My mother would never hide something like that from me."

"Your mother, was not who you have grown to think she was."

"She's _my_ mother! Not yours! I think I know what I'm talking about."

"Asphodel." Glorfindel's smooth voice pierced the silence.

She ignored him. How could she not when such accusations were being made? "You can think what you want to think, I don't care. My mother is a Swedish immigrant, she's lived in France since I was a baby, since before I was born. You're not going to convince me."

"Your mother was cousin to my wife, born in Tirion upon Túna, and in Greenwood the Great did she reside."

"All of these stupid made up names are giving me a headache, I'm telling you, you're mistaken."

Something in Elrond's eyes told Asphodel he wasn't going to listen to her anytime soon. A poisonous pit of sadness and confusion had begun to boil in her stomach. All of this talking had put her in a worse mood than prior; she could have snapped at any moment. Who did these people even think they were? Speaking for her mother?

"You do not know your father, correct?"

"Stop." The girl hissed angrily, her

"He is here, in Arda."

Asphodel flinched. "Stop it." It didn't take a genius to tell she was at her cliff's edge, ready to scream at the Lord if he pressed any further. Her nails seeped into her own flesh, drawing crimson liquid from pale skin.

"Elrond," The blonde ellon cleared his throat, shooting Elrond a steely blue glance, "I think that is enough for today."

"She does not see, Glorfindel."

"And bombarding her with a family history will solve this issue?"

"_She_, is right here!"

A warm hand slid over her shoulder, fuelling the overflowing conflict of emotions in her mind at the sudden touch. "I shall show you the way to your room, Asphodel."

She stood up, happy to be orvet with the torturous meeting and to (hopefully) be given some well desired time to think.

"Asphodel?" Elrond's voice came out quieter than it had usually. She turned to face him briefly, a frown pulling at her lips. "I may have been harsh, but only with good intent — contrary to popular belief." He shot a glance at Glorfindel. "The sooner your accept it, the better. You can not run, not from this. "

"I'll keep that in mind." Or she would try to . . .

"Will you?" Glorfindel asked after she'd shut the door behind them.

Asphodel turned around to face him. She hadn't really been able to get a good look at him until now. Perhaps that had been a good thing, because she truly felt as if she was about to faint.

"Will you run?"

His eyes were the bluest blue she'd ever seen, holding hers with a deep intensity. He had hardly intended to look so tantalizingly beautiful, at least she assumed. Asphodel got the feeling it came natural to him, like first nature or something like that. You know when you can just tell that someone is effortless in their actions? Glorfindel didn't even have to try to make it seem so. He looked straight out of an Armani advertisement, like his face belonged on the cover of Vogue magazine, not here in this hallway, staring down at her with that dangerously attractive grin. )And god, was he so much taller than her!) Standing at a grand height of 5'10, Asphodel had never really considered herself short before now. The ellon next to her had to have been at least 6'7, if not taller. (She didn't exactly have a tape measure to figure out his exact measurements— because that would be creepy.) Though above all was his hair, she observed, possibly the most jaw dropping part about him. His locks were the colour of sunlight on a winter's morning: smooth, shiny, and not a single strand of frizz in sight.

Asphodel concluded she would kill for hair like that, letting out a soft sigh and ripping her eyes away from the ellon. If she dared to look any longer, she feared she would never stop.

"Maybe," She ran a hand through her newly minted silver hair with a shrug, finally answering his question. "maybe not." Her answer was honest.

He smirked.

He totally saw you staring. Damnit, Asphodel. You need to learn how to be more subtle.

"I take it you do not like being told what to do."

"How did you know?" She laughed quietly.

"Well you see . . . It is not everyday an elleth yells at Lord Elrond in his own study. I will admit, it is amusing to see a dear friend rendered helpless at the hands of yourself."

Immediately, she snapped her eyes to meet his in defense. "What's that supposed to mean?" Asphodel scoffed, crossing her arms and giving the ellon a pointed glare.

Her glare doesn't seem to affect him in the least; he only shakes his head, expression stoic. "You are extraordinary." Was Glorfindel's gracious reply.

Asphodel felt her breath hitch in the back of her throat. The look he gave her was, was something else . . . She could not put it into words if asked to. She knew she needed to put a stop to these childish thoughts— though how could she help herself? The elf was the prettiest thing she'd ever seen. He literally glowed, an iridescent light radiated his body. Now that, was what she considered extraordinary.

"Please," She laughed, tucking her head down to her chest in a measly effort to conceal the dust of rose that had tinted her pale cheeks so suddenly. Dial down the charm, Goldilocks, she was tempted to tell him. "I'm anything but. All I did was die, Glorfindel."

"I am not sure you understand, Asphodel." He murmured, gazing out upon the sun blanketed valley as the two neared the end of the winding corridor and began down the same stone path she had first came. Asphodel's brows furrowed, Glorfindel turning to cast a glance down at her from above. "It is a miracle you have returned to us alive. What Miluiwen did . . . We did not think either of you had survived. Do not underestimate your worth, titta minë."

"You knew her too then?"

"Yes, very well, ages ago.." Glorfindel said little, his deep voice low and reminiscent.. She stole a glance over, expecting him to be frowning, though she is met with the opposite; a joyful grin. "You are," He paused, letting a small smile play his lips. "just like her."

"I know." Asphodel rolled her eyes, before realizing how carelessly she had replied to the statement. "I mean— I just, I hear that a lot."

Glorfindel let out a small chuckle as his glimmering sapphire eyes met hers. "I am not surprised."

"It's just crazy, to be here, and to have all of these strangers telling me things about my mother that I'd never thought to be remotely possible." If she went further into it, she might have just broken down into tears — which was certainly not the impression she wanted to make on Glorfindel. Actually, she had no clue of what sort of impression she wanted to make on him, she was just overthinking as per usual. Asphodel sighed. "I don't know, I guess it just kind of makes me feel stupid."

"You shall come to realize it to be the opposite, I am sure."

They slowed as they neared the room she'd been assigned to stay in, though Asphodel had no idea how they'd gotten back. Imladris was truly a maze. A sinking feeling in her chest had the blonde tapping her foot against the ground continuously; she was anxious. All of this information, be it real or not, was far too overwhelming for her to handle in one measly afternoon. She needed time to think, a lot of it . . .

"Dying wasn't supposed to turn out this way, Glorfindel. I don't know what to do, I don't know anything. I don't even know what I don't know! You people speak a different language than I do."

"I know." His blue orbs pierced hers, sending a shiver down her spine without even asking for permission. She knew it wasn't cool that she was swooning over some old man that had been friends with her mom back in the day, totally not cool. It didn't matter though, she decided, a content smile on her lips.

Asphodel thought of all of the times in her past life she had limited herself to small pleasures, like ogling at men she knew were unattainable, or going ahead and eating the entire tub of ice cream, just because she could. She would make sure for it to be different this time around, she would stare at all of the beautiful people that she wanted and eat all of the food that she desired. She would be limitless .

Did he really know though? Asphodel turned her head to gaze upon the elf, who much to her surprise, had already been looking at her.

"Eventually." Glorfindel murmured.

"What?"

"You will learn how to live again."


End file.
